


crisped bottom and soft yolk

by lawlipoppie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawlipoppie/pseuds/lawlipoppie
Summary: Jongin needs him.
Relationships: Kim Jongin | Kai/Park Chanyeol
Comments: 16
Kudos: 112





	crisped bottom and soft yolk

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY I JUST GOT REAL REAL SOFT OVER THESE TWO, IT HAD TO HAPPEN ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“What’s up?” Chanyeol asks once the door of Jongin’s room closes behind him.

Jongin gets up from his desk, hair poofy, legs bare, eyes alight, and skips to stand in front of Chanyeol. “Nothing,” he smiles, then dives right in.

Chanyeol, in stature, is pretty big, yet Jongin hugs him like he’s barely enough, like he could fit even more into his arms. Because Jongin sometimes needs the world, needs _so_ much, that Chanyeol would just never suffice, but Jongin takes him in like he’s doing his mightiest to take in more, stretched thin until he’s a doily of yearning.

It’s impossible not to respond to it, fervour igniting in Chanyeol’s thorax when Jongin lays his cheek on his chest, and _squeezes_. It’s just that Chanyeol doesn’t squeezes back as hard, and instead he transforms it into a little massage session – Jongin’s shoulders are always tight, always sore.

Soon, Jongin is purring, roping Chanyeol into a sway. His embraces are endless, boundless, tokens of immensurable adoration.

Nothing is up. Chanyeol heard this one plenty before. Nothing means everything. Means a cumulation of big and of small, of unendurable and of joy, of exhaustion and of stasis, layers upon layers, ossified lime atop his sentimentality until he isn’t himself anymore. And in those times, those complicated times, Jongin needs someone to be there with him.

At first, he was shy to ask Chanyeol.

_Come over_

_Why_

_So I’m not alone_

Years later, Jongin only texts him:

_Chanyeori_

And Chanyeori drops everything and comes running.

Right now, his slippers are on wrong. Left on the right and left on the right. They’re also not his own – Jongdae’s, he thinks, which means Minseok’s, and they’re too small, the ends of his heels spilling out over the hard sole. He was out on his way to the annual vehicle inspection for his car, as it is due in a few days. That can wait, precisely those few days, but Jongin needing him cannot. Should not.

Jongin walks him backwards, and Chanyeol rids himself of the slippers on the way. They crash down onto the bed – only a few steps away from the door – and it’s a hymn of _ouch_ and _that was my spleen you just elbowed, fuck_ and a few screechy titters. They worm their ways up, up until they’re against the headboard, their embrace not once broken.

Jongin nestles himself half on Chanyeol’s chest, half into his armpit. He pulls the duvet over his bare legs – over Chanyeol’s too, when he whines – and then lays that arm around Chanyeol’s waist, fingers tucked between him and the mattress.

He sighs.

It’s contentedness. It’s quiescence. It’s thank you for coming. It’s thank you for being here.

Chanyeol doesn’t have to reply. He makes himself comfortable, pulling a tiny pillow under his head. He sees it’s stained turquoise, still, even if Jongin already washed it a couple of times. It’s a hopeless victim now.

On the side of Jongin’s wrist, in pen, a recreation of one of his father’s illustrations. It’s fresh, a bright blue.

Chanyeol hugs him just a bit tighter.

Jongin makes a little sound in his throat, and snuggles closer. Chanyeol is wearing one of his favourite hoodies, the black Vetements one, and on his chest, a triangle of three rice grains fused into it, gone translucent, from a lunch days ago. Jongin picks at it with his index, teasing it with the margin of his spilt nail. Chanyeol watches him, and the patch starts crumbling, flakes of opalescence slowly taking over the place of the stain. All that’s left behind is a little mound of snow.

Then he looks up at Chanyeol, auric irises from the bedside table lamp. “Chanyeori hyeong,” Jongin whispers, a teeming _r_ , a droplet of honey, “Can I kiss you? I want to kiss you.”

Chanyeol stills, uncomprehending. The question lingers, drifts away, and only when Chanyeol’s ears stop ringing from it, does he answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, because he doesn’t know. He has no idea if he wants this. He knows it’s not a no. For now, but if it’s a yes, he cannot doesn’t know what kind of yes it is.

“Do you want to find out?” Jongin asks, the kindness in his voice only growing, sprinkling shimmer onto his lashes.

Why doesn’t that sound ridiculous. It should be ridiculous. He should be laughing it off like it’s the _biggest_ joke.

Instead, Chanyeol nods.

He’s curious. More than anything, he’s curious about his own reaction to it – why he doesn’t find it ridiculous.

Jongin gives him a tiny smile, sloped lip corners and curved lids, and places a hand on Chanyeol’s neck. It glides up until he’s cupping the side of Chanyeol’s face.

Chanyeol’s heart skips beats, goes into arrhythmia as Jongin pulls himself closer. It close enough that Chanyeol goes cross eyes looking at him.

Jongin leaves him the last move, leaves it on him to press their lips together. He waits, looking pointedly at Chanyeol’s lips, after which he closes his eyes completely.

And it’s close, and it’s easy, and it’s _natural_ for Chanyeol to just dip and kiss Jongin. 

It’s a squish of lips, skewed, stiff, dry.

Jongin’s thumb presses into the hollow of Chanyeol’s cheek. He pulls away, only a fraction, and kisses Chanyeol again, a slight tilt to his head. They fit better, yield, welcome. Then again. Then once more.

Then they pull away – not far, just enough to not be kissing anymore.

“That wasn’t bad,” Jongin whispers. He was only as curious, as unsure as Chanyeol was.

“It wasn’t bad,” Chanyeol agrees, eyes on Jongin’s lips. It’s odd because for a kiss, it didn’t feel like anything special, but as something to be done with Jongin, like a hug, like a cuddle, like any other kind of comfort and intimacy, be it physical or otherwise.

Their position is different now, Chanyeol leaning over Jongin, and Chanyeol didn’t even realize when they’d move. They stare, Chanyeol feeling his hair droop over his forehead. He still has the urge to brush it behind his ear, though it’s not long enough anymore. It seems Jongin has the same urge, for he raises his hand and brushes Chanyeol’s fringe over and over, guiding it towards his ear, only to see it doesn’t reach, and flops back over his forehead.

Chanyeol can do it with Jongin’s. And he does it, parting his hair, and tucking each side behind his ear. He looks silly. But adorable. Jongin bursts into giggles, probably aware of how he looks.

Then they’re kissing again. A little bolder. A little closer. Unsureness gives way to enjoyment.

Chanyeol soon concludes that Jongin is a devastatingly good kisser.

Not good in the sense of prowess, in the sense of technique, of games, of thrill, but in how much he gives himself to it, how it’s not only about the lips, but it’s about his entire body and entire heart.

And when Jongin acts that way about it, when this is the sensibility he puts into it, Chanyeol copies it, and extracts comfort, and warmth, and fuzziness from the slow, uncoordinated, but gentle suckle of Jongin’s lips. There is texturing on them, a few dry flakes, and the way that friction burns into Chanyeol’s until they’re numb, soaked with a pleasure that blazes in his chest, not a fire, but a smoulder.

It makes him feel oddly…Jongin. It feels like Jongin has always made him feel, safe in a moment he didn’t even know he was unsafe, he was lonely, he was distressed, he was torn, but more intense, more profound, homey, more everything, up into a flourish of superlatives, until Chanyeol feels the safest, warmest, fuzziest.

They break apart, and Chanyeol gazes at Jongin.

Chanyeol isn’t gay, because he didn’t think about it. And though he didn’t, kissing Jongin, this kind, this nature of kiss doesn’t have a labelling, or a structure to fit in. It’s enticing, it’s absolute in a way another kiss can’t be.

“Is it weird between us now?” Jongin asks in the lengthening space between their stung mouths. He’s having the same thoughts as Chanyeol. “I don’t find it weird.”

Ask a question, and then answer it himself first – it’s just a Jongin thing

Chanyeol ponders, suspended in tumult, Jongin’s thumbs lining the hems of his face. “It’s weird, but not…weird _weird_.”

Some new, exotic brand of weird. Not scary, but wondrous, spiced with a few palpitations. 

“Then kiss me again?” Jongin asks, already tilting his head back so his lips get closer to Chanyeol’s.

And Chanyeol could have a little more of this _weird_. He dips and drinks.

Why is it so easy. Why is it so fitting. Why is it to inviting. Why is it so obsessive. Why is it so splendid.

Chanyeol cannot explain, and he’s not looking to either, not when Jongin raises his hip, and pushes until he rolls over Chanyeol, and kisses, and rolls over, and kisses, and rolls over, and kisses, until the end of the bed, then repeat, hands haywire, breaths shorn, lips of gaiety and fondness.

If there are boundaries, they have yet to outline them, and it’s a mechanism of daring, pulling back, assessing. Jongin bites his lower lip, encaging and stilling, until Chanyeol pulls out, the graze smarting in the wake. It prickles all the way down Chanyeol’s spine. So he does it to Jongin right back. Jongin preens, fingers deep into Chanyeol’s sides, knees bracketing his hips. More tooth, more aggressiveness, more play, then the glaze of their tongues looking to mend all the harm, all the smoking enticement.

They nearly fall off the bed at another turn when they pull apart, and Chanyeol manages to scoop the rest of Jongin back under himself.

Eyes closed, cherry cheeks, licking his lips with slow, broad strokes, Jongin utters, “I like it.”

Chanyeol groans. “That went straight to my cock. I didn’t have scheduled a sexuality crisis tonight.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make it _weirder_ , even with the blatant introduction of _this is kinda gay_. And last time he checked, they neither him nor Jongin were gay. 

“I’m sorry, should we reschedule it for another day?” Jongin asks, and Chanyeol loves how _casual_ he is about it.

“I’m free on Friday night.”

“Me too,” and then silence, but a silence of mutual acknowledgement of how iffy it is, an aberrant mien, an air perfumed with things unsaid, and low lashes, wet lips, strewn sheets. “Is it really a crisis?”

“I don’t know, I don’t feel like hiding myself in a bunker.” It’s no negligible feeling, and while it does seem to shift his whole selfdom, Chanyeol’s reaction is disproportional to the magnitude. So maybe it’s not that significant. Maybe Chanyeol just _wants_ it to feel unsettling, for some godforsaken reason.

Jongin’s fingers press into his waist, bridge of his palm pushing the flesh in for a spilt second – emphasizing that Chanyeol is still here, over him, not tensed, not panicked.

“It’s okay. I don’t know either.”

They kiss. They kiss. They kiss.

Chanyeol doesn’t even know what happens, what their lips do, what their hands do, what their hips do, he only knows they kiss until they have to part for air.

“Does this make you my boyfriend?” Chanyeol asks. It’s been a joke. It’s been nonchalance – just a title for whichever hyeong bought him dinner for the night. There isn’t just one kind of boyfriend out there, there are several, and Chanyeol wonders if this assigns Jongin one of them. If this makes them from a something into another something.

Jongin glides his fingers back and forth under Chanyeol’s chin, where his facial hair is sprouting. He just shaved that morning, but it regrows there first, in only a couple of hours, and now it must be at that length that’s addictive to play with.

“It makes me your Jongin,” he answers at long last.

“You’re everyone’s Jongin.”

Sort of. Not quite. But sort of. Because Jongin is just that open that if anyone shows him love, he walks right into, snuggles right into it, revels until it’s all used up, because to Jongin cherishment is precious, is something he can’t walk by without acknowledging, without nudging it into prosperity. With Sehun, with Baekhyeon, with Junmyeon, with Kyeongsu, with Minseok, with Jongdae, with Yixing, with them all he has a closeness, with them all he has a cuddle, more leg, more jab, more soul, with them all he shares a love.

And being they’re all different, Chanyeol wonders if theirs is notable, is regarded any higher, any deeper.

“I never wanted to kiss any of them,” he says.

That’s could be a quantifier. Chanyeol doesn’t know what to make of it, and Jongin perhaps doesn’t have the clearest idea either. So he steps back from this and into— “Hey, Kyeongsu seems a great kisser.”

Jongin bursts into giggles at once. “You want to kiss him, don’t you?”

Chanyeol blushes. With fury and denial. It’s not the merry kind of blush. _Really_. “No. But like, _man to man_ , I wondered if I could keep up.”

“Hyeong,” Jongin whines, and it’s both high and low, overloud for the small space between them, “You want to kiss him.”

“Really _no_ , it was in _theory_.”

“In theory you wanted kiss him?”

No. Not like that no, but no _no_.

“I really _don’t_ ,” Chanyeol emphasizes with all the emphasis he can muster.

Jongin peers at him, tense, before he mellows, simpering. “Okay hyeong, you don’t.” 

Chanyeol groans once more, frustrated, and kisses Jongin as some form of punishment. That only lasts for a few presses, before he gives in into Jongin’s anointing caresses, the smooth cradle betwixt his lips.

Both of Jongin’s hands are now up Chanyeol’s hoodie. His pants have slid down too – they’re old, the waistband loose, and he forgot his belt yet again. Throughout the day, he was counting on the length of his hoodie to not flash everyone his underwear. Jongin snaps the elastic band, grin mischievous, before he goes up feeling Chanyeol’s tummy.

“I have one ab now,” he says, slipping out of the kiss. He tries flexing, and even like this he knows the ridges don’t show anymore.

Jongin’s fingers dig, and it hurts, and tickles, and Chanyeol thrashes into the prodding. “I found at least four,” he says.

Chanyeol lowers himself all the way on Jongin, no longer supporting himself over him with his arms. He slides to the side, and runs his own hands under Jongin’s pyjama shirt. It’s the red checkered one, fleece, the middle button missing. He feels the delineation of his abs. Even when laying down, even when relaxed, they’re prominent.

Chanyeol sees his waist and tummy all the time, yet he isn’t any likely to stare. He didn’t get to touch as much though. Something about it is transfixing. He’s svelte, compact, _long_ , and Chanyeol doesn’t know if what he feels is jealousy or admiration – _be_ him, or _have_ him – but it doesn’t matter now anyway. All that matters are the clippings of giggles Jongin lets out which each of his touches. He’s ticklish _as fuck_.

Jongin ends up pushing him on his back, pulling his shirt down, and sliding his own hands back under Chanyeol’s hoodie.

“Please find the other two abs,” Chanyeol says.

“There can be eight. Junmyeon hyeong has all eight showing.”

“Yeah but he also eats ten eggs per meal and I’m _not_ about that life.” Chanyeol has his fair share of hyperfocusing on certain goals, and it is exciting to achieve them, but not sustainable.

Jongin pinches his tummy. “You look amazing,” he says.

Jongin doles out compliments like he’s got an infinite supply of them, but the delivery is so earnest, so wholehearted that Chanyeol can never believe it’s any kind of hollow pleasantry. “Correct,” Chanyeol intones flatly, as if he isn’t _melting_.

Jongin titters, and his arm slides down his side, fingers under him. His nose is into Chanyeol’s neck.

“Do you want to sleep?” Chanyeol asks. He doesn’t know how late it is anymore. Jongin’s room is broken form the regular time-space continuum, thick blinds always drawn over the widows. It’s even more warped now by the impromptu smooch spree.

“No,” Jongin says. He says no, even though he always wants to sleep. There’s never enough sleep.

Then Jongin farts, a short hiss topped with a few bubbles, and Chanyeol is _three years old_ , so he laughs his ass off as he makes to get out from under the covers. Jongin, hysterical himself – blushingly so – doesn’t let him, holding him down tighter than ever. “You’re not escaping it!” he exclaims, but soft, a wisp of shame. 

Chanyeol could escape, despite the _sizeable_ bulging of Jongin’s bicep over him, but he doesn’t. He lets Jongin win.

“Can you smell how delicious my chicken stew was?” Jongin asks, _buried_ into Chanyeol’s neck. The embarrassment is that high. And normally it wouldn’t be like this, farting around each other is no novelty, not after so many years, but a post-kiss fart is pretty new. As if that changes things.

He had dined with Munkyu after practice. He hasn’t seen him in almost a week, and that’s one week too long for them to be apart. Chanyeol is aware of how close they are.

But then he also wanted to eat out with him. They eat together all the time, but out of plastic containers, on the floor of the practice room, and it just isn’t the same as going out to have something actually nice, after which they could relax instead of going back to run through the choreography another million times.

“Mine don’t smell like the chicken stew I didn’t have with you,” Chanyeol jabs, and clenches to let one out as well, but – “I will shit your bed in my quest to prove how bitter I am to you.”

Chanyeol doesn’t hide it. He loves it _mostest_ when they’re all together.

“Sorry,” Jongin says, rubbing his nose up and down Chanyeol’s neck in a dandle. His hand also squeezes his side. “We’ll have some tomorrow. And at a nicer place, because the stew there really wasn’t the best. Please don’t shit my bed.”

“Since you asked do nicely,” Chanyeol tuts, pulling on Jongin’s earlobe in reprimand.

“Or we could have something now?” Jongin asks, perking. His palm slides back to the middle of Chanyeol’s stomach. He knocks. “That sounds pretty empty to me?” 

It didn’t even make a sound. “Are you hungry?” Chanyeol questions, eyes narrow. The last thing he wants now is to order food and have Jongin bail because he’s not hungry.

“Duh,” he says. He rolls away, and knocks on his own tummy. “I heard crickets.”

Chanyeol is about to say something about how he needs to call pest control on that issue, but then he thinks of something else. “Maybe you were just hungry,” Chanyeol suggests.

It’s not a nice thought – and he doesn’t know why he would like Jongin to want him, to need him for reasons bigger than hunger.

“No,” he says, and he shakes his head, his fringe swaying about. His eyes are all warmth and sincerity. “That doesn’t even make sense.” And then louder, “I missed you.”

Jongin saying this with the very lips Chanyeol just kissed hits a little different. He won’t mull on it though. This is enough newness for one night.

He picks up his phone, and Jongin rolls back onto his shoulder to look at the screen as well.

First, he has to ask in the group chat if everyone is home. Once he opens it, he sees Baekhyeon sent some video meme, and they know Baekhyeon’s memes shouldn’t be left unanswered, _ever_ , so Chanyeol replies with Junmyeon’s _spectacular fantastic amazing unbelievable_ subtitled gif. Superleader hyeong isn’t impressed, _-_-*_

Junmyeon says that Jongdae is showering. He only needs four replies, and when Minseok hyeong says “yes”, Jongin _audibly_ pouts. Minseok then adds a laughing sticker before Jongin can berate him. 

_we’re kicking you out of the group, Minseok-ssi_ , Sehun replies.

 _calling teacher lsm as we speak,_ Baekhyeon adds.

As if Baekhyeon would _ever_ call the old fart on his own accord ever again after the last couple of speeches he pulled on him. Chanyeol cringes just recalling Baekhyeon recounting it. His poor cold pork cutlet.

Which might be why Baekhyeon asks for pork cutlet. Lots and lots of pork cutlet. Boy has a trauma to get over.

Sehun seconds the pork cutlet in a blink.

Chanyeol adds dumplings – steamed, for Jongdae – and the rest fried. Along with other deep-fried goodies – _vegetables_ , Junmyeon exclaims, a train of _!!!!!!_ in tow, followed by another one, as if that can compel Chanyeol into ordering more than two servings. And a few rolls of kimbap, with _tuna_ , because they can have _all_ the bougie kimbap they want now. And given such greasy food can give Sehun heartburn, he orders a bowl of soup for him on the side.

It’s not _nice_ food, it’s nostalgic, indulgent food that brings them back to their debut days.

“The stew will be left for another time,” Chanyeol says, finishing up the order. He puts the phone down.

“I’ll treat you, hyeong,” Jongin says, back to rubbing under Chanyeol’s chin.

“Just me?”

“If it’s just us two going.” And his smile is a dash enigmatic, is a dash… _flirty_. Chanyeol isn’t used to this.

He isn’t used to Jongin guiding him down into another kiss either, but he gladly falls into it.

It’s a kiss that’s going nowhere. It’s not a kiss of old lovers, it’s not a kiss of new lovers, it’s just a kiss between Chanyeol and Jongin, where Chanyeol likes the way Jongin nips his upper lip, a little harsh, a sting, a frolic. It’s slow. Not quite sensual, not quite sexual, but engaging.

They kiss until his phone pings with the notification that the delivery has left the store – it should only be a couple of minutes until it’s here. The restaurant is downstairs.

When Chanyeol rolls out of the bed, standing and putting on the slippers the right way this time, he stops before the door. He turns towards Jongin, who just made it to the end of the bed. “Do I look kissed?”

And Jongin just _has_ to do it again - bite his lip, then lick over it, then give Chanyeol a glittery gaze. “Yeah, um—”

He raises on his knees, and pulls Chanyeol close by the hem of his hoodie. He brushes his hair down and smooths down his clothes and gestures for Chanyeol to pull up his dangerously low pants. “That didn’t help.”

Jongin stoops in and pecks Chanyeol. Chanyeol gasps, taken aback, because they’re not in bed anymore, they aren’t laying down anymore, and somehow, out of the cuddle bubble, this feels like too much, like it’s of another meaning. “And that helped even less,” Jongin says, bashful eyes on Chanyeol’s ruddy cheeks. His own are of similar splotchiness. Oh god, _what is this_.

Chanyeol starts laughing. Jongin laughs too. He shakes his head, and Jongin only does it back. Mirror mirror mirror.

Jongin’s smile has always been pretty, prettiest, so maybe it’s something wrong with Chanyeol’s eyes that now he sees it even prettier, even more dazzling. He blinks, rapid and incredulous.

He hears the door of Baekhyeon’s door shutting with a crack, followed by a scream of, “I’m read to be fed!”

Jongin laughs, stumbling off the bed to find pants, and Chanyeol leaves his room just as the doorbell rings.

Maybe one day he wouldn’t care if he left Jongin’s bedroom looking well kissed. Today is just not that day.

**Author's Note:**

> now let's talk about how MARRIED chankai are


End file.
